Feelings of a Typical Sociopath
by Herr Fritz
Summary: When has Sherlock ever allowed himself to be typical anything?  That clause allows him to bend the rules governing sociopaths.


_I have been reliably informed that I do not have a heart. I have thus informed others I am a high-functioning sociopath. Typical sociopaths are eternally calculated and measuring. Typical sociopaths experience no empathy or mercy for the people they meet._

_It is a doubtful miracle that the typical sociopath would feel for those he loves. _

I stand at a crime scene, observations complete. Victim: a mom, late fifties. Husband still alive, two- no... three healthy children. Successful career, reasonable income, and no enemies to speak of.

"Suicide," I quickly ascertain, already turning to leave. "She felt guilty for making it so far in life when none of her siblings lasted past childhood. She was the only one in her family to survive the polio."

Lestrade is about to protest, a fact easily revealed by his sharp intake of breath, but whatever he's about to argue is immediately interrupted by my good doctor, John.

"Brilliant!" he exhales, and any annoyance I had felt toward the dim-witted police dissipates. I can sense him trail behind me already, like a dog following his master. A quick smile flits across my face as I turn to look at John, and he eagerly returns it.

_I've done enough social observations. What I should be feeling now, judging by my smile, is the soft warmth of being flattered._

"Perspective is everything, John," I calmly elaborate to my protesting flat mate. "And right now a fresh angle could possibly open up a new line of deductions."

With a flat finish, I gesture to the duffel bag resting on the table in front of us. Cautiously, he prods at it before delving in more thoroughly.

"Hard canvas...wet on the outside, but dry and course on the inside...probably belonging to a handyman or the like in a laborious job. It's also slightly larger than average, so he probably used it for long trips-to hold more stuff...or for delivering...erm...it doesn't show too much wear, though, so he must have taken good care of it- he might be poor..."

"Very good," I quickly interrupt, the whole process taking far longer than I would have preferred. Not to mention my skin prickled at the faults in John's observations. He had relayed the bag's appearance with total accuracy, but his inferences had been far off the mark. In fact, they were so far off target, I'm beginning to question the army's qualifications for marksmanship. In reality, the bag had belonged to a west-end ballerina, upper-class family, the fabric of the duffel large and safe enough to carry her light-but valuable-dancing garments.

Still, John is getting better at the science of observing, if not deducting. It's a step up from merely seeing, as he used to do when we first met.

_If I didn't know any better, I would have taken the swell of pressure in my chest to be a sort of pride for him._

It has been proven that trained reflexes can overcome instinct when a person is thrust into a life-threatening situation. This is handy knowledge to have, for if it weren't true, I would have little doubt that the gun in my hand would be trembling far beyond a point of accuracy. And accuracy is what counts most at this moment, because a margin of centimeters is the difference between shooting John or the crazed man who is using him as a shield.

"Don't worry about me! Just shoot him!" John yells, quite unnecessarily, seeing I am only a few meters away, and because his attacker could take such a prompting to heart and react dangerously. Analyzing my options, I realize John's outburst has limited them severely, so I am forced to take the first decision. I fire upon the attacker.

He falls to the ground, bullet having hit its target directly. John nearly falls as well, but he has lunged forward to keep from being dragged down. He breathes raggedly, and I speak before he can catch his voice.

"That was a highly inappropriate statement."

My scolding seemed to take Watson by surprise, because he manages to force out a strangled 'What?' before gulping down more air.

"You know I am a sociopath. I do not feel worried. Implying I should put an emotion I do not feel 'aside' is a waste of breath, an unnecessary statement, and thus inappropriate to the situation."

My response is reasonable. John does not realize how close I had come to mistakenly shooting him.

_Although, that is not the case. I know I would not have shot John. My training has proven itself to properly overcome the rush of adrenaline- which was undoubtedly the cause of my shaking hand. It's a far cry to call a flurry of hormones 'worry'._

"All I'm asking is for you to go pick up your own nicotine patches for once!"

I'm attempting to research the river levels of the Thames, as the patterns have been increasingly erratic. I have no patience to argue over trivial matters with John now. Not bothering to look up, I respond.

"What I'm doing if far more vital than grocery shopping."

An exasperated sigh. "I'm just asking for you to do this _one_ time for me! I just want to-"

I set down my cell phone, irritation rising from John's idiotic, incomplete logic.

"All I'm stating is that someone with my superior aptitude, brainpower, and talents is far better suited to spend their time preventing deaths than performing mundane domestic tasks!"

A look comes over John's face. His lips tighten, and the glint in his eyes grows hard. I have offended him, and it is only a matter of moments before he storms upstairs to his room.

_I refuse to apologize for a statement of the obvious. An apology implies some sort of guilt for my words. I see no need to vocalize something so extraneous. Perhaps, though, I will offer to pick up the groceries later. John did mention earlier that we need more milk._

John crashes through our front door, and I follow right after. We are both giggling, which is mutually agreed to be acceptable, now that we have left the crime scene. The mix of adrenaline and endorphins coursing through our veins keeps us high, better than any of the drugs I used to pump into my body.

Through his laughter, John works to speak beside me, but instead fails and collapses against the wall. I repeat in suit, and patiently wait for him to speak his mind.

"I sure can't say nothing happens in my life, anymore," he is able to squeeze out before erupting in more laughter.

I should be in more control of my actions, but at this point, it seems my arm raises itself on its own accord and settles itself across John's shoulders. At once he stiffens, and I realize I may have overstepped my boundaries as a flat mate and detective. Instead of giving a scolding on personal space, though, he leans into me, scoffing slightly.

"You're a bleeding sociopath. Typically, Sherlock, you aren't supposed to have any feelings."

I feel a little skip in my chest. My heart dances in amusement and love. Emotions I am not supposed to feel threaten to unfold inside me.

_Then again... when have I ever allowed myself to be a typical anything?_


End file.
